


We've Got to Live, No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen

by Wrenly



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Body Horror, Character Death, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Cullen Rutherford Angst, Cullen is a bit of a tool, Dead Hawke (Dragon Age), Dorian Pavus is a Good Friend, Drinking, Explicit Language, F/M, Female Inquisitor Angst About Solas, Friendship, Gore, Inquisitor Dealing with the Aftermath of Trespasser, Iron Bull is a Good Friend, Iron Bull is the best one, M/M, Mention of sex, Mention of torture, Multi, Other, POV Cullen Rutherford, Pining, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Post-Trespasser, So much angst, Solas is my favourite also the worst, Sorry Cullen it's never going to happen, Trespasser Spoilers, Unrequited Love, canon character death, caring for injured Inquisitor, discussion of Kirkwall Circle, sad Varric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 20:12:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17904851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrenly/pseuds/Wrenly
Summary: The Inquisitor saved them at Haven and Cullen loved her. She brought her people back from the Fade and Cullen loved her. She had eyes for only Solas and Cullen loved her. He knew it was hopeless but still he couldn’t stop loving her. Now she was lost, somewhere beyond the eluvian, chasing the deadly Qunari Viddasala and he waited, powerless, hoping she would return.





	We've Got to Live, No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> Come with me on a journey of axe grinding and angst about my endless feelings about Dragon Age in general and the twin doofuses Cullen and Solas in specific. 
> 
> With many grateful thanks to Nathan and Rey for being my brave and handsome beta readers. Without you this would be a much weaker work.

          Cullen had grown accustomed to waiting. The Inquisitor spent little time in Skyhold, moving from crisis to crisis, putting down corrupted Templars, politicking with Orlesians and always, always closing rifts. This was different. Her companions and soldiers had returned to camp by ones and twos, separated, bones crushed, beaten. _Without_ her. And he was trapped at their base camp, at the bottom of the mountain they’d climbed to find the Viddasala, the Qunari Magic Breaker, tending to casualty reports and waiting. Still waiting. He had been since she came through the eluvian at the Winter Palace reporting that she knew where the Viddasala and the rest of the Qunari forces had escaped to. The Inquisitor was a scout and she had gone ahead with a small force, through the mirror, to face an army. Cullen and the rest of _her_ army had been forced to find that place over-land. The mountain temple had been teeming with the enemy and while they fought to reach the shrine, he knew she was at the centre of it, somewhere.

     “The Boss will be back, Commander.” Iron Bull settled heavily beside him. He sounded certain. Cullen couldn’t be, not seeing the massive bruise that covered Bull from collarbone to waist, his arm in a sling. None of the others had looked better. The fight had been grueling, up sheer switchbacks, each curve of the path to the temple trapped or with ambushes waiting. Bull and Sera had hobbled into the camp two days prior, supporting each other. Sera had been hamstrung, her leg dripping blood through improvised bandages. Bull had been dazed, arm limp at his side, coughing blood. 

     “We made it, and we didn’t have a full set of limbs between us. The Qunari broke, the way back is clear.” Cullen nodded, leaned forward on his knees and stared into the fire. Bull and Sera had told him as much when they made their report, but he hadn’t _heard_ it, not really. 

     Dorian had fared the worst. Leliana’s agents had found him half way down a ravine, his left side blistered from where he had failed to dodge a spell and fallen. The healers were with him, but he hadn’t woken, yet. Cullen had watched the agonizingly slow retreat of the burns under their hands and wished for the thousandth time that Solas was still with them. It never seemed to take so cursed _long_ when Solas healed with magic. He’d come to rely on that and so had the Inquisitor. 

     Would she have told Bull and Sera to retreat if she’d had Solas to get them back on their feet? He was more cautious than Dorian. Would she have gone through the last portal alone if Solas had still been with them? Would she have been more careful if she’d known Solas was waiting for her, rather than the never-ending responsibility, the constant need and her worn Commander who represented all of it?

     Would he see her again? 

     Bull elbowed him. Hard.

     “Quit working yourself into a knot of maybes. Nobody survives like the Boss. She’s slicker than slick and can out-fight, out-hide and out-trick any of those bastards. She is coming back.”

     “Coming back to what, Bull?” Cullen asked, thinking of the constant clamor of tasks that followed him. “Spies, assassination attempts, politics in perfume stinking ballrooms?”

     “Of course! The Boss loves all that shit.” Bull’s laugh boomed for a second before it caught in his chest, sound turning wet. “And I hate damned war-hammers.” 

     ****

     She was the first figure he saw when he entered a room - how could she not be? The Inquisitor was the loudest stealth fighter he’d ever met, her voice filled any chamber it entered, no matter how large. She took up more space than her tall elvish frame could possibly account for, legs splayed, boots on any available surface; she spoke with her hands, with flicking fingers and wide gestures, made even more prominent by the occasional green flash of the Anchor. The constant movement and noise caught his attention over and over. His attentiveness increased as the importance of her role in the Inquisition became clear. It became his duty to protect her -- as much as you _could_ protect someone who would choose to ride her mount into a basin full of wraiths, screaming to capture their attention while pouring power into the rift, and distracting them long enough so the others could slip in and finish them before the demons had time to cast a single spell.

     How do you keep someone who was so gloriously careless safe? You couldn’t, not truly. But he watched and he tried. He introduced contingencies to her plans, added backups and retreat locations, tried to blunt the wildest schemes. Occasionally, he was successful at wearing away some of the heedlessness, reminding her of everyone who depended on her well-being. She hated that - being tied to any obligation beyond that of friendship.  

     And, of course, he loved her.

     He had since she spat in the eye of the cleric who accused her of killing the Divine. Since she stumbled, half frozen and entirety victorious, from Haven. Since she had rescued him from unwanted touches in Orlais, using flirting eyes and the occasional swat to draw away his admirers. And the lyrium. She had saved him there, too, encouraged him and drew the shame of his actions in Kirkwall from him like poison. She had reminded him that there was more than pain and disgrace. 

     How could he not love her? 

     He remembered her stripped to the navel, shameless and shamelessly cheating the rest of them at cards. He was sure she could have had almost any of them that night. She certainly could have had him with a twitch of her lips. 

     She didn’t, though, and he respected her for it. A general shouldn’t dally with her troops. Just as surely, a Commander shouldn’t watch his general so closely, well beyond duty and well beyond sense.

     ****

     The first time that Cullen had mourned her had been after Haven. He’d barely known the Inquisitor. She had spoken to him briefly on her walks through town, joked with him about the smallness of their forces. She had a word for everyone, when she wasn’t fending off bandits or finding the people and supplies they needed. He’d had no idea, then. All he’d felt at the time was gratitude for her sacrifice and the weight of _another_ loss, one more rock on his chest.

     The second time had been at Adamant, enacting his plan. He had known. Known what it would mean if his plan failed and they, _he_ , lost her. The sight of her in constant motion, moving from campfire to campfire. Lost. Her endless late nights and inability to play chess. Lost. The bray of her laugh and the crash of her boots against the cobbles outside his office. Lost. He still sent her into a famously impregnable fortress -- as if he could have held her back -- but it was his plan. He had looked up at the dragon’s scream and seen tiny figures falling, a green flicker and then...nothing. She was gone and it was _his_ plan. Cullen had been too far away to hear their cries, _her_ cries, when they fell from the battlements -- too far away to see her face. 

     One of his runners had confirmed it, soon after. The dragon wounded, the Warden Commander defeated, but the Inquisitor gone. He’d known. 

     Who else could control the holes in the sky? 

     The news had left him reeling, but he hadn’t stopped. He had his duty. There were soldiers to protect while they routed the rest of the Grey Warden forces and their demons. She wouldn’t have thanked him for sentiment at that moment. He shouted orders and sent reinforcements and hoped and forced himself not to feel the certainty of her loss. There would be time for that later, too much time. 

     Then another green flash. The portal opened and Sera, Varric, and Solas emerged from the Fade - always the Maker-damned Fade. No Hawke, no Alistair, no Inquisitor, and his heart had broken again. They came through at a run, spattered in demon blood and he waited a brittle moment for the rest to follow. 

     Nothing. 

     Another heartbeat. 

     Nothing.

     “Varric, where are they?” Cullen asked, voice harsh, accusing.

     “There was a _spider_ the size of a mountain and it was an ass.” Sera said, eyes locked on the rift. 

     “They were holding it back so we could get through.” Varric said. Solas turned, breathing still ragged, and took a few steps back towards the rift.

     “We cannot leave them,” Solas started, before it pulsated again and Alistair came through. 

     Another heartbeat. 

     Followed by the Inquisitor. 

     Solas reached out, cupping her shoulder, and said something urgently in elvish. She touched the back of his hand and replied in the same tongue, for once not needing to be goaded into using it. Cullen sighed as relief slammed into him. He hadn’t sent her to her death. It hit so hard that he forgot there was one more of their party that hadn’t returned. 

     “Where’s Hawke?” Varric asked. 

     The Inquisitor hadn’t forgotten. She stepped away from Solas’ touch, with eyes for no one but Varric. 

     “Where’s Hawke?” The soft intonation identical.  

     “Hawke sacrificed her life to save us and strike a decisive blow against Corypheus.” 

     A cry that was half celebration and half mourning rippled through the soldiers as one of Cullen’s men rushed forward with a report. He might have missed Varric’s quiet “Well…” but the Inquisitor didn’t. She followed him -  running to catch up - and stopped him, her hand squeezing his shoulder. Cullen learned later it had been her choice to leave the other woman behind, that she had saved Alistair and the Wardens.

     She didn’t have the words to ease Varric’s stricken expression, but she wouldn’t let him leave, wouldn’t let him be alone. When grief finally overwhelmed the dwarf, she wrapped arms around him and wept the tears that he was too hurt to cry.

     Later, Cullen found her sitting by the fire near Varric’s tent. 

     “He’s asleep,” she said, using a stick to poke the fire. Even in the poor light, he could see the red rims around her eyes. She drew her sleeve under her nose. “Took quite a bit of ‘medicinal’ brandy to put Varric out.” 

     She tilted her face up to look at him and shook a half-drained bottle in invitation. Cullen sat next to her uncomfortably, keeping the arms length distance between them that he always did. He cleared his throat and took the bottle, he wanted to advise her, but not knowing where to begin. He sipped it and was surprised. It was stronger than brandy, and tasted harshly of spirits, bitter violets, and sharp spice. 

     “I don’t recognize this,” he said.

     “Probably wouldn’t have had cause to, unless you’d been to a Dalish funeral. It’s called,” she added a three syllable word in elvish.

       “What is it?”

     “Aie gods, everything translates so badly. It all sounds like ‘Mother of the Dawning Dew’ or ‘the Halla’s Pretty Gait.’” She made a tsking sound between her teeth, baring her chipped front tooth. “Means something like ‘A Flower to Remember and A Flower to Forget’, because it’s for mourning and because it’s made from flowers, mostly.” She shook her head. “It’s traditional. Took a bottle with me when I left the Dales and I’ve always been able to find another one before I needed it. Easier to come by now, just have Josie procure ‘em for me. Good thing.” 

     He had led first Templars, then soldiers into combat for a long time, had had to make difficult decisions, surely there was something he could say. He coughed apprehensively and tried: “Command means making these kinds of...”

     “Decisions like leaving someone to be tortured by a massive demon spider that can reach into your mind, see your fears and then _eat_ them? I don’t think command usually means that.” She tossed the stick into the fire, planted her elbows on her knees and looked at him, slight smile on her face. “Admittedly, I’ve never led much more than a scouting party before, so maybe all commanders go through this.” He met her eyes and that smile for a moment before looking down at the bottle, shifting it between his hands. “I don’t regret it," she said firmly. "Losing Hawke is a blow. But it was one of us or all of us and those two would have argued over it until it was all of us. The Wardens know Corypheus, Archdemons and the blight. We need the Wardens and the Wardens need Alistair.” 

     “You did the only thing you could, then. Inaction rarely benefits anyone.” 

     She chuckled at that. Low and quiet, not the usual sound that could rock the foundation of a fortress. 

     “Hm, I have a lot of advisors who’d disagree with you.” The fire snapped and she stretched her boots out in front of it. She gestured for the bottle, and he surprised himself by taking another draught before returning it. It tasted strange, but clean and strong. She held it near her face, not drinking but closing her eyes and inhaling. “I’m surprised you didn’t get along.”

     “Me and your advisors? We’ve always come to…”

     “You and Hawke.”

     “And why would we?” he asked, breath snorting out. “She saved us in the end, but the cost - what _she let Anders do_.” The sound of his own voice, suddenly loud and harsh stopped him short. He rubbed the back of his neck, taking a moment before he continued, tone more measured. “She was disrespectful, disruptive, and spent her entire time in Kirkwall hiding apostates.”

     “Well, most of my favourite people have turned out to be apostates, so I don’t know that I’d hold that against her. She was an assertive and opinionated leader.” The Inquisitor raised her brows at him, her tone teasing and hazy -  she had helped Varric with the bottle. “I was beginning to think you had a soft spot for that...” She trailed off, glancing up at him. “I heard a story you were sweet on the Hero of Ferelden, way back when she was a circle Mage.” If he were ten years younger he might have blushed, remembering the kisses stolen by the woman who had saved them from the Blight. Assertive seemed a small word to describe her. Ah, back before everything had gone so wrong. “Cassandra dragged you here by the ears, then there’s me, and I’ve heard the Knight-Commander Meredith was-“

     He sat back hard, hearing that name, greaves scraping loudly. He remembered what her clarity of purpose had lead to, where she’d led _him_. 

     “Shit, Cullen, I’m sorry.” She put the bottle down. “Too much medicine for me, too. I didn’t mean to bring it up.” She reached her hand out for him but stopped the gesture, letting him keep the space between them. Instead, she leaned it on the log next to him, an offer, not a demand. 

     “The cost wasn’t only Hawke’s.” He cleared his throat, the words were difficult to say, tied up in duty, training, and the Andraste-cursed Lyrium. “After Kinloch…” He reached out and for a second nearly took her offered hand, but instead reached for the drink. Sharp and warm, he hoped it would loosen his tongue. Cassandra knew some of it, but the Inquisitor -  she’d come through pain and horror, whole and unbent and he admired her for it. He wanted her to know all of it, the nightmares, the craving, what he had done. She would understand. “There were so many dead. Uldred and the other mages trapped me in that circle and I watched them kill. Then they would come to me for blood to keep killing.” He stared down at his bare hands, again. The scars began at the palms and didn’t stop. They had called him a fountain. “When she found me, I thought she was another demon.” Maker, there had been so many of those, playing scene after scene of escape, revenge, and rescue for him, drinking down his sorrow. “When she finally convinced me she wasn’t, I begged her to kill them all. Every mage in the tower, her friends, her teachers. How else could I be safe from them?”

     “She didn’t,” the Inquisitor said. She reached out again, but didn’t touch him. Instead, she tapped the bottle and gestured at him to drink. He did, the drink loosening the tension in his gut that reliving this caused. 

     “No, thank the Maker. I railed at her for it. You’ve heard the stories, she rescued us all and I returned to the Templars. I took the tower with me to Kirkwall -  I _must_ have known what Meredith was. I was trained to protect. I swore it - to protect the mages from themselves and everyone else from them. What we did there, it wasn’t protection, and Hawke knew that. Anders is a murderer and a madman and if Hawke had had any sense of justice, he’d be as dead as those he burned at the Circle. But if I hadn’t blindly followed Meredith, if the Templars hadn’t pushed too hard...it could have been different.” 

     “She called for him at the end, you know. Anders. He wouldn’t say, but I think Varric knows someone who knows someone who might be able to get a message to him. I hope I’m not going to have an enraged mage who’s good with explosives coming to Skyhold.” The Inquisitor turned to face him, not letting him shy away. Firelight traced a line over the jags in her long hooked nose. He wondered how many times had it been broken. “It sounds like both of us were lucky that Hawke was there at the end. Cullen, you know I don’t hold with a lot of that Dalish ‘my Keeper said’ this and that.” She nodded her head at the bottle and he drank again. “The world is so much bigger than the Dales. Before I left for the wide, wide world, there _is_ something my Keeper used to say about guilt.” She closed her eyes and the words sounded recited. “There is the kind that pushes you forward and there is the kind that holds you down. Kinloch sounds like a Maker-fucking disaster and if your leaders had cared one tenth of a damn for their men, you wouldn’t have had charges again so soon. The more I hear about the Templars, well, I’d disband the whole Order for a pin.” She twitched her fingers, tossing the idea of the Templars aside.

     She paused for a moment, holding him with unflinching eye contact. “It also sounds like you screwed things up about as badly as someone could. You did wrong by the people in your care and helped bring that festering boil to a head. You could stand to think harder about the plain fact that mages are just more people.” Hearing that condemnation from her, it made his lungs contract. It was hard, and yet also better than the soothing words he’d gotten from the Templar Order. She didn’t try to console him by telling him he’d done his best, fulfilled his duty. Sharp and clean.

     “...and down and down it rolls. Enough cost and blame to cover everyone.” She reached forward, reclaiming the bottle and drinking. “Cullen, it might be that you’d be better off talking to someone from your Chantry about all this, instead of me, but you’ve always done right by us. Things would be harder, here, without you. It seems like you’re learning to use that guilt right.” He finally looked down, couldn’t meet her unwavering, kind eyes any longer. “Of course, I hope you’d have more sense if it came up again. Help put me down before I started waving around an evil sword, threatening to take over the world.”

     “Inquisitor - ” There had been such succor in admitting what he had done in those brutal days. He hadn’t imagined _how_ great a relief it would be, laying bare his failings and the atrocities of his past to her. And how much greater the relief that she did not dismiss it with platitudes or talk of duty. She acknowledged the wrongness of his actions. If he hadn’t already loved he, he would have, then, for even as she admonished him with one breath, in the next she laid out a path for absolution. “Thank you. I-I don’t know that anyone else would quite understand…” Her hand was still leaned close to his, the simple comfort he’d held back from for such a long time. “There’s something else,” and he wasn’t certain if he intended to tell her about the Lyrium or his feelings for her in that moment. 

     “ _Lethallen_?” Solas’ deep, slightly lisping voice interrupted whatever he might have said, and her serious expression loosened into a smile as the quiet confidence between them broke.

     “Solas, join us, we’re drinking the wine of Bittersweet Dandelions of Joyous Remembrance, and Releasing Unnecessary Sorrow.” She offered it to him. Cullen was grateful to her for quickly starting a conversation with the other elf, saving him from the embarrassment of awkwardly changing the subject. Solas’ lips curled into a small smile, and when he took the bottle from her he didn’t shy away from her fingertips. 

     “You know,” he said drinking the last of the bottle, “as colourful as your translations are, it is probably closer to ‘Farewell.’ It might also be premature. Hawke is a formidable woman with some experience in the Fade. She may not be lost, yet.”

     “Were you looking at the same ancient demon who’d been feeding on fear for thousands of years that I was?” She asked, looking skeptical. “And your translation completely ignores the floral, memorial undertones. Not your best work.”

     “Long odds do not make it impossible. As easy as it seems to be to do so, I did not come to argue with you, but to offer something more certain than this to help you sleep.” Solas proffered the empty bottle back to her. 

     “Don’t trust me to knock myself out after a fight?” She took it back, smiling wider. 

     “I trust you to spend yourself heedlessly trying to see to every soldier not yet tucked into a tent.” He reached down and she grasped his hand firmly, letting him half pull her to her feet. Solas steadied her elbow, the two of them standing close together, and looked over to Cullen, who suddenly found himself on the outside of the conversation. He wondered if Solas considered him one of those many troubled soldiers. “Commander, I could offer you the same service. Many of us are wound too tightly for rest after a battle.” 

     The Inquisitor coughed, stifling a laugh and pushed Solas’ shoulder. “I don’t think Cullen would like your methods, Solas.” She looked back at Cullen and danced her fingers through air. “It’s twinkly magic and rank herbs.” The mischief in her voice made him wonder, though. 

      

     ***

     Bull was right, as always. She came back. Just like at Haven, they’d nearly given up hope, the scouts finding nothing and none of her companions hale enough to search for her. None of them could track or hide like she could, in any case. She wasn’t hiding, though, when he saw her haltingly stumble over the ridge into the camp. Cullen recognised her at a glance, even at a distance, covered in mud and blood, her armor battered, her hair wet and matted. He ran without thought, not considering the possibility of an ambush or whether it would be better to send for a healer. He was at her side, wrapped her arm around his neck, bracing her, his arm around her waist. She leaned against him, hard, trusting him with most of her weight. 

     “Inquisitor, you…” She turned slitted, uncomprehending eyes on him, half sealed shut with filth and fever. The arm squeezing tight to the back of his neck was hot, gritty with dirt and slick with sweat. Her other arm, though, he didn’t feel it pressing against the one he had locked around her hip. He shifted his grip, slightly, still feeling nothing. He twisted, trying to look at her other side, while still keeping her supported. 

     It was gone. 

     The ragged edges of charred armor, seared and stuck to the seeping, burnt stump of her arm. “How? The Qunari leader? The Anchor?” She didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure she heard him at all, her weight bearing more and more heavily on him as they shuffled towards the camp. By the time they were close enough for him to shout for help, he was practically carrying her, but she stayed on her feet till Cullen and the healer lowered her into a cot. 

     It wasn’t until the healer pushed him into the corner of the tent that he could hear the sounds of the camp coming alive, excited shouts at seeing her. The smell in the enclosed space twisted his stomach. Burned meat, acrid singed leather, charcoal and earth. How long must she have been hiding in the terrain, maimed, inching her way back? Cullen watched as the healer assessed the damage before turning back to him. The Inquisitor was twisted on her side, curling around her wounded arm. Rivulets of sweat running down her face. 

     “...suffering from exposure…” The sound of the healer’s voice briefly intruded into his thoughts, but all he could focus on was her and the blood and pus seeping from the burned stump, staining the sheets. 

     “...armor is … into the wound.” 

     She was murmuring something, fist clenching and releasing, too quiet to hear, and he took a step towards her. 

     “Commander.” The healer stepped in front of him, blocking his view. “It’s festering, we need to remove the foreign objects, clean it and allow it to drain. I need water, brought to boiling twice, _twice_. Commander, _mind me,_ ” she tapped a finger against his armor, “or send me someone who will.” He stood to attention at the sharp tone, automatically responding to the authority in her voice and to the threat of being removed. “And find me a mage, if we have one that’s upright.” She looked him up and down. “And someone strong and reliable, if we need to hold her. Not you, Commander.” she said, forestalling him. “The Iron Bull, if he can with his injuries. Now go. Hop to!” She pushed him again, harder this time, and he went. The faster he completed his tasks, the sooner he could return. 

     There were no mages to spare. Too few of the former Circle could keep up the pace the Inquisitor set and those that could had already exhausted themselves or hadn’t made it back whole. When he’d tried Dorian’s tent, hopeful that he had recovered enough to help, Krem barred his way.

     “No, Commander. If you ask him, he’ll come, but he’s barely conscious. He doesn’t have the energy to spend on anyone else.”

     “I wouldn’t ask more-“

     “You might not mean to, but it’s better if you don’t have the opportunity. Dorian’s done enough stupid things for the Inquisition for the day.” The other man crossed his arms and stared at him, unyielding. Krem and Dorian had grown close over their years in the Inquisition, no wonder, there were few enough Vints in their ranks. Cullen looked at the stubborn pose and knew there would be no moving him. 

     Bull came, though.

     “The day I need more than one arm to wrestle the Boss,” Bull snorted out a laugh, “well I’d say I’d be in my grave, but even then I’m not so sure.” The water was ready when they returned and the smell of astringent herbs added to the oppressive rank of the tent. “One side, Commander.” Bull said pushing him further into the tent, he bent to fit his massive frame inside. “Where do you need the Iron Bull?” 

     “Here,” the healer gestured at the Inquisitor’s shoulder on the wounded side. “Gentle, unless she thrashes. She isn’t responding and might not know you.”

     “As a fluffy lamb, doc.” Bull said, kneeling by her head, placing his giant hand on the armor over her collar bone. The healer took a paring knife, sharp as the Frostbacks and began sawing through the leather of the sleeve. It was slow work and Cullen was grateful she hadn’t worn chain. She lay still until they put the stump in a basin of water and herbs, trying to soak the debris out. She screamed, then, but Bull was ready for it. He bore down on her shoulder, holding her in place. Cullen wasn’t, and if he’d had a moment of irritation at the healer’s quick assessment that he couldn’t have done this, he regretted it, then. The screams were guttural, terrified. He saw her good hand reach down automatically to her waist and grasp for something.

     He moved without thinking, wresting the knife from her hand before she had a good grip and reaching for the other weapon before she could. Rage added itself to the scream then, and she bucked her shoulders once more before subsiding, her hand weakly grasping at Cullen’s wrist with little strength to it.

     “Thanks, Commander. I think you just saved me getting stuck.” Bull said, without looking up.

     The healer remained focused on her work, her nimble fingers and delicate tools removing scraps of armor as they soaked loose from the scab. Her scalpel was used sparingly where the wound had begun to heal around makeshift bandages and debris.

     He watched as Bull talked to her through it, steady, despite the cries that cut through Cullen. Bull reassured her until the screams died into exhausted yelps of pain. Cullen was, for a moment, envious. Not of the place of trust Bull held, but the calmness that he faced it with. 

     “Hey now, Boss. Lis, here, will get you all sewn up, then you and me, we’ll go find who did this and show them what it means to tangle with the Inquisition.” He rumbled a laugh. “Unless you already did. Heh. I bet you did. Any fight you had to crawl away from doesn’t have any other survivors.” Lis, the healer’s name was Lis. The Iron Bull knew everyone in the camp, no matter how large, and remembered them, despite the chaos.

     It helped. The familiar sound eased the panic in her face and her hand stopped grasping for the missing knives. She still tried to pull away each time the healer cut, though. “Help me, here Commander. I need to pay attention to this.” He pressed down as lightly as he could to keep her from moving.

     Cullen started to put the knives in his belt, thought better of it -even now she was fast- and put them across the room. He knelt down on the other side of her.

     “I...ah…” Cullen faltered before he began. As the constant stream of words halted, she began to tense again.

     “It doesn’t matter _what_ you say, just let her hear your voice. Tell her that she isn’t alone out in that trap-infested asshole of a mountain.” 

     “The, um, the repairs to the upper floors of Skyhold are coming along on schedule.” He fumbled for topics, trying to remember the last report he’d read before he’d seen her. “We’re expecting more loads of timber for shoring.” She stayed tense under Bull’s hand and he began to wonder if his voice wouldn’t work. He looked up at Bull “I think she likes your voice better, we could switch…”

     “Hmm, well who could blame her, all you humans sound like you’re squeaking, but I’m fine here, Commander. Maybe try to sound less like you’re reporting.”

     He tried again, taking the glove off his hand and hesitantly placing it over hers. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt his skin bare against hers, it must have been early days, before he’d forced himself to withdraw from her. He wished it could have been any excuse but this. 

     ”The stonemason you found, Maker knows how, is more than we could have asked for. You always find us what we need.” The conversational tone or the contact was working. He watched her relax into the cot by inches. Her hand didn’t clench as hard under his. “Convincing him to leave work on the lady Ravina’s pleasure gardens to freeze in Skyhold must have been a feat. Varric said you promised to get him access to some architectural library in Orzammar. Vivienne said you were going to introduce him to the Empress’ planner. And Sera said you promised to...to...” he stalled. He had started telling the story, not remembering that detail until he had arrived at it.

     “To suck his cock, Boss!” Bull laughed. “She asked me if all you had to do to get that treatment was learn to thatch roofs, and then asked where she could find some straw!” 

     Cullen’s shocked laugh joined Bull’s.“I…” He gasped a little “Hadn’t heard that part of the story. But, Inquisitor, whatever you promised him, he’s good. If I wasn’t worried about what I’d find, I’d test for using that stone shaping magic Solas used to use.” 

     Cullen and Bull both stopped talking for a moment. She didn’t react to the name. They both let out a sigh of relief, Bull’s suddenly tense grip on her shoulder relaxed. 

     “Maybe I was right about it not mattering what we said and maybe I wasn’t, but I think we should avoid that name, to be safe.” Bull said, laughter gone out of his voice. 

     Cleaning and dressing the wound took time, but between Cullen and Bull the Inquisitor didn’t panic again. The poultices that the healer applied seemed to help with the pain. There were no further screams, to Cullen’s relief. He knew he would be adding those to the others he already heard when he slept.

     “That’s the worst of it taken care of.” The healer said, rinsing her hands. “Now we get some potions down her, clean her up, and wait for her fever to break.”

     The sheets under her looked like a war zone. Churned mud, blood, and shredded armor. 

     “Commander, will you help me with the Inquisitor’s armor?” the healer continued. Cullen’s eyes went a little wide at the request. She would be wearing a full shirt and long britches under it, he knew. Despite what Varric might write, no one wore little to nothing under fighting leathers without suffering for it. Andraste knows he’d seen her in various states of undress before - during card games, in close quarters, communal bathing areas, and the completely non-existent modesty of a woman who had grown up in the Dales before moving on to a mercenary company. Still, the thought of his hands, which thankfully _weren’t_ trembling, stripping her, teasing the stiff tongues of her armor’s buckles open, working the saturated leather loose, easing it from her shoulders to her sides, barely tracing over the ridges of it, gently undoing... it was so... the thought... he...

     Bull cleared his throat and looked at Cullen, pointedly.

     “I think we should leave you to it, Lis. All healer work from here, no real use for muscle.” He winked at her, obviously trying to distract her from Cullen’s pained silence. Bull looked down at his sling. “Well not for a few days till this is healed up at any rate.” 

     Lis returned his wink, allowing herself to be distracted and adding an inviting smile before she turned back to the Inquisitor and started the arduous process of getting an unconscious, fully armored woman clean.

     “Oh I don’t know,” she said. “It looks like we’ll need plenty more water brought from the river and you don’t need two arms for that.”

     “Cheeky,” Bull said, pushing Cullen from the tent. “I like that.” He shot over his shoulder as they left. 

     “Thank you for that, Bull.” Cullen said, once they were out of earshot. “I didn’t want to overstep.”

     “Ha! Well, you looked like you might have keeled over, and that’d put more than half the crew knocked out. We’d never live it down.” Cullen moved back to where he’d been waiting by the fire, but Bull kept walking. “Got a pretty healer to impress with my water hauling and seeing the Boss fieldstripped never made _me_ lightheaded.” 

     He didn’t go back to the tent until well after Bull had finished bringing water and she was safely dressed and tucked into the cot.

     “The fevers down, but not broken.” Lis said, cleaning her tools and replacing them in her bag. “We’ll let her sleep tonight, change the bandage and give her another potion tomorrow.”

     “Thank you, Lis. You did good work today.”

     “Thank you for keeping her from disemboweling anyone.”  She nodded at the knives piled on the table. They’d apparently found more when they undressed her. “I’ll be back later to check on her, but I’ve got other patients to see to.” 

     She looked better. Someone, Bull? had unmatted her hair. It lay limp and wet around her face, but sweat wasn’t dripping from her and she lay quiet. As he pulled a stool to the side of the cot he tried to tell himself it was to make certain someone would call a healer if she worsened, but it was just as much to reassure himself she had really returned.

     ****

     It was months before they defeated Corypheus, before Solas had disappeared, when Cullen first noticed it. When he first saw her go off balance. It was after her tattoos disappeared. Her bare face had been shocking, but he hadn’t been able to work up the courage to ask her about it after she’d snapped: “Magic,” with an unusual harshness at Cassandra when she had asked. The Inquisitor was still the first into a fight, barking with laughter at the slightest provocation and spending her free moments with her friends in the Inquisition, but he noticed. She retired earlier from the Inn, spent more time on the road, and didn’t bring the other elf with her, though she brought him back many artifacts. Cullen watched her spring to her feet as soon as possible after she briefed her advisors on her return. She hurried to Solas’ rooms as quickly as she could, clasping the parcels gently in her rough hands. 

     “We spent _hours_ climbing a mountain, an actual mountain, to get that!” Dorian said, looking towards the door. “And do you know what this great and powerful, absolutely don’t leave up on the freezing ass cliff face even though my dear friend asked me to artifact is?”

     “It looked like a mask made of…” Cullen said.

     “No no, golden boy,” Dorian interrupted. “It isn’t a mask or an artifact. It’s an excuse.”

     “I don’t…”

     “You don’t need to play to an audience _now_. The great wide world isn’t watching _here_ , Cullen. We all know she’s enamoured, so we can all commiserate and be suitably affronted for her. And annoyed that she makes us travel over hell’s half acre so that she can spend twenty minutes talking to that tedious, bald…”

     “Solas?”

     “Yes, that tedious, bald _Solas._ Why she thinks he’s…” Dorian started again before seeing his face, which must have looked ridiculous. “We _do_ all know, here, don’t we, Cullen?” Cullen sat down heavily, fingers tense on the War Table and stared down at nothing.

     He hadn’t, of course. All that attention but so little understanding.

     “I thought...she’s an elf and he knows so much about them, that she wanted to understand more about their history….or that there was something in them about the rifts, or…”

     “No, Cullen. It’s not like that at all.” Dorian reached out putting a comforting hand on his wrist, surprising him. Few of their company touched him, and certainly not the mages. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. The way you glare at him and put yourself on the other side of every debate.”

     “No, no, I just think he’s wrong about most things.” Except one, apparently. “How long have I missed this?”

     “From not long after we came here, until just recently.”

     Cullen’s eyes shot up from the table. “Until?”

     “Yes. Until he threw her over,” Dorian said. So, Solas _was_ wrong about everything, then.

     “What?” The Commander said it more loudly than he intended, watching Dorian intently. The other man squeezed his wrist and shook his head.

     “Don’t expect anything to come of the break, Cullen... Solas gave her big sad eyes and some old saw about how he wasn’t right for her and couldn’t let love distract her from her duties.” 

     Cullen blanched at that. He had wanted seriousness from her, too, and had frowned at her small joys. And she... she had cozened him out of it, made him join her in enjoying them, like she was no doubt doing with Solas, now.

     “He won’t hold out,” Cullen said, but his body was stiff and uncertain. He cleared his throat, trying to strip the disappointment out of his tone. “No reason he should. I’m glad she found someone, even in all this mess.” He gestured down at the tokens on the table.

     “You don’t have to do that.” Dorian squeezed again. “We all know, remember? And you aren’t good at hiding it.”

     Cullen clenched his fist, not responding but not pulling away, either. It felt good to know someone knew about his, what, his feelings? He felt like a green boy, mooning over his first crush. “I... didn’t mean to be so obvious. It seemed wrong. The Commander of the Inquisition's forces and a Templar.”

     “ _Former_ Templar, by this point, I should hope” Dorian said raising his brows. “and it turns out, you could have been significantly more wrong, you could be a hot and cold blowing old windbag, with shoulders for days and awfully attractive hands.” Dorian shook his head. “But she can’t see past him, Cullen. She’s been wrapped up in him since the beginning. I wish we’d talked sooner, so I could have saved you this.”

     “I don’t know that it would have made any difference, but thank you, Dorian. It was kind of you, and you _have_ saved me from acting like a bigger fool in front of the others.” Or her. Imagining the mortifying scene of him professing his affection, only to be rejected, and her trying to spare him the worst of the sting of it. He’d been so close to just that at the camp after Adamant, Maker.

     He owed Dorian a debt. He wondered how many of them the mage had had similar conversations with - how many of them he’d tried to protect from her.

     ***

     Cullen was more than half asleep, uncomfortably hunched over, still wearing his breastplate, when he heard her voice. He barely recognized it, soft and hoarse. He leaned closer to her, his back protesting. He’d been a fool to keep his armor on, too old to act like a young Templar holding vigil. 

     “Inquisitor, you made it back. We’re in camp,” he said, remembering Bull’s instructions. He took her hand, without thinking. She turned her face towards him and her words became clearer.

     “...don’t, don’t go…” and then something else something that sounded Elvish, which he rarely heard her speak outside of the occasional curses that Varric assured everyone who would listen that they were filthy. Or with Solas, who had drawn it out of her whenever he could, using a distracted moment to surprise her into her native tongue or asking her for the Dalish pronunciation of a phrase. Cullen remembered the softness in Solas’ smile when he succeeded in tricking her into it. At the time, Cullen had thought he just wanted someone to share his language with. Later, he wondered how intimate those conversations had been, in the secret tongue that they shared.

     Her words sounded more and more desperate, with no sweetness to be heard. She started pulling at his hand, clutching at it.

     Cullen wracked his brain for the few phrases he’d picked up from the elves at the Circle. They’d laughed to hear him try to pronounce them when he was young, before - well, all that had happened there. He’d done what he could to bring a little light to that place. 

     “No,” he said haltingly, he hoped she might recognize the words. “Please,” and “protect,” and “sorry.” She heard him or seemed to and sighed out another word they’d laughed to teach him.

     “ _Vhenan_.” Love, lover, beloved.

     And immediately after, before his heart could catch on that, another word that he knew all too well.

     “Solas.”

     She calmed again after that, turned towards him and wrapped her fingers around his.

     ****

     She woke him a second time late in the day, struggling to sit up.

     “Andraste’s double cocked wedding night, _my hand!”_

     Thankfully at some point in the night, she’d let him go and he’d fallen asleep, slumped in the stool, so she wasn’t talking about the one that had been holding his, but the one that… wasn’t.

     “Inquisitor, you’re awake.” He tried to sit up straight, and groaned. He’d stripped off his breastplate but he’d still spent the night sleeping on a stool. His entire body seemed to have fallen asleep, and the fur of his collar was stuck haphazard to his lips and stubble. Truly, the picture of a loyal, steadfast knight. She sounded too angry to notice.

     “The _literal_ son of a bitch took my hand!” She attempted sitting up again, this time not using what wasn’t there. He moved forward to help her, uncertain where to put himself, where it would be appropriate to touch her, but settled on bracing her shoulder with one arm while using the other to move the pillows behind her. She was still hot to the touch and the brightness in her eyes was only half rage, the rest clearly fever.

     “Who did this, Inquisitor, how did it happen?” He remembered himself. “I should get a healer.”

      “Later. Get Bull and Sera and Dorian, this is more important and I only want to tell it once.” She blinked, remembering. “Wait. Bull, Sera - then Dorian, I moved ahead of the line, needed to be fast, I didn’t want to lose the Viddasala, but I lost _them_ ,” she turned her eyes up at him, panic edging her voice. “Cullen. I left them behind- I had to... did they…?”

     “They’re injured, but they all made it back.” His night of fevered hand-holding made him bold and he took hers again. “You all made it back.” She sagged, relieved, clutching his fingers back without any sign she’d had to consider it.

     “If it had been worse than this, I don’t know if I would have,” she said, jutting her chin towards the stump. “Aie, gods, but it isn’t worse. The Viddasala is dead, and yet it’s still crisis time.” She shook her head. “Can they come? They need to know it _now_ and I swear it, Cullen, I don’t have this story in me twice.” 

     “Sera and the Iron Bull are hobbling, but Dorian couldn’t leave the healer last night.” 

     “Then he’ll host us. Help your Grand Highest Honor out of her bed, Commander, and give me at least three things with a blade before we go.”

     “Inquisitor, the healer won’t let you leave the tent, I’m sure of it.”

     “Last I heard I am the right hand of a fucking human god and blessed be my holy ass, I’d like to see someone _try._ Now, up we go, Cullen.” She’d moved her hand from his to wrap around  his neck, catching her fingers in the ruff. 

     She was right, no one stopped her, especially not him. He even draped a small sling of throwing daggers around her neck before they left the tent. 

     Moving even the short distance to where Dorian was recuperating was slow going. Anger and willpower had their limits. Her face, so close to his as she leaned against him, was drawn in pain and her breath came in hot, stale pants.

     “Maybe….it would be a good idea to have them set up another cot in Dorian’s tent,” she admitted slowly as the motion of walking jarred her arm. “It’d be faster if you flung me over your shoulder, eh? But probably not good for morale.” Her smile was drawn. 

     “It would have been faster if you’d stayed in bed,” he hissed back at her before shouting at a soldier to bring another cot into the mage’s tent. Dorian was awake, but not well. He was stripped to the waist, his left side a mass of bandages, starting at his cheek and down to where his hip was covered by the quilt.

     Cullen heard her breath hitch at seeing the extent of the bandaging and the sallowness of his skin. Healers and magic had improved his condition and Cullen was glad that the Inquisitor had been spared the sight of her friend when he had first been returned to camp. 

     “Any excuse to wear half a shirt,” she said voice sharp but her expression worried. Cullen slowly lowered her onto the second cot. She sighed, exhausted from the brief exertion. 

     “Well,” Dorian said, looking equally shaken at the sight of her. “If they are letting elves, soldiers, and other riffraff into this establishment, I can’t possibly stay any longer.” He deliberately kept his tone light, but Cullen could hear the falseness in it. Neither of them were ready to acknowledge how badly they were hurt. “You, boy, fetch me the manager.” He waved his hand at Cullen.

     “I’m so sorry for the confusion, sir,” Cullen said, putting on an Orlesian accent and trying to help the other man pick up the joke. “But the good lady here, _is_ the management.” It was a weak jest, but they both seemed desperate not to face how closely won this victory had been. 

     Dorian and the Inquisitor turned towards him with nearly identical shocked expressions, hers cracking first, and soon laughter softened the lines of pain and worry on her face. He crossed his arms and smiled down at her. He needed to try harder - the others all made her laugh.

     “What _happened_ to you, Dorian?” She said, mood lightened enough to ask.

     “Dodged a damned fireball too well and not well enough. Still got singed and apparently they found me half way down a cliff.” He reached his hand up and touched the bandages on the side of his face. “I may have ruined the best hair in Thedas, but we can’t know for sure until my scalp heals.”

     “Cullen,” she said, her tone mock serious, “make certain you send a raven to Leliana, the news is dire and I don’t know if the Inquisition will be able to soldier on without that guiding light.”

     The tent flap opened, and Sera and Bull entered. Sera leaned heavily on a staff, bandaged from ankle to thigh. 

     “Shove over, Your Chosenship, or I’ll blast you with Elven magic, yeh?” Sera said, balancing on her good leg and waving her staff ominously.

     “Good to see you awake, Boss.” Bull clasped her good shoulder before he leaned back against a table as Sera crammed herself into the cot with the Inquisitor. She lightly slapped the other woman’s thigh.

     “You had us all strung tight, running off and taking as long as ya did to come back.”

     Cullen watched them, they all touched each other so easily, the Inquisitor was a physically affectionate woman and invited the embraces and cuffs from her friends. He had always kept his distance and she’d respected it, never crossing the line of space he kept between them, until now. Bodily carrying her across the camp, spending the night in her tent, hand over hers. Now, now he didn’t know. Didn’t know what he should do, what it would be right to do. 

     “Getting here was…hard.” She said, looking down at her left side. Cullen had seen her after months on the road, after fighting in bogs and in frozen wastes. He’d seen her defeat dragons and darkspawn, alike, but he’d never see her so tired. He had thought of her as having boundless energy and interest. He wished he shared Sera’s bravery and could curl himself around the woman they’d all worried they’d lost, that he could ease some of that weariness. Instead, he drew up a stool and sat near the foot of her cot. Loyal old dog.

     “Inquisitor, you don’t have to tell us now, your injuries are fresh. It can wait a few days until you’ve had more time to heal.” Surely they could spare her that. Tentatively, he reached forward, and patted her shod foot. She smiled at little at the gesture. 

     “You don’t mean a word of that, Commander. If Leliana hasn’t sent six birds in the last day, I’ll bugger a bear. You need to know, the Inquisition needs to know, and I _need_ to tell you.” Her strong, clear voice had a flinch in it. “Solas brought us here, led us to that gods forsaken temple to stop the Qunari and keep them from invading.”

     “If that’s what he’s been up to, spying for us, then where is the old bastard now? And why didn’t he help you back? Some kind of elfy thing?” Sera asked, rolling her eyes.

     “He wasn’t. He isn’t.” The Inquisitor squared her shoulders and looked each one of them in the eyes in turn as she said it, refusing to buckle under the weight of whatever she needed to tell them. “The Mark, you know it was becoming erratic, it was worse.” She took a sharp breath. “He took it.” They all glanced at the empty space where that expressive, deadly hand had been. The tent filled with tension. Cullen grasped his sword hilt, more habit than threat. They stayed silent, even Sera. The Inquisitor wasn’t done. “He isn’t what we thought. He...” and her brows twisted, her lips forcing out the words, wanting to be shed of this duty. “He’s Fen’Harel and he wants to kill the world.” 

     ****

     The Inquisition’s forces remained at the bottom of the mountain for weeks, too many injured to risk the journey back to Skyhold. The healers used what magic they could on the worst of the wounded, but there were only three of them traveling with the party. And, as Lis acerbically reminded Bull when he came for more healing, there was no substitute for rest and not exacerbating serious injuries. Their recovery was slow. The news of Solas’ betrayal had caused a massive number of reports coming to and being sent from from their convalescing camp. Solas apparent godhood (and Cullen had difficulty swallowing this bit of news) had caused more. He spent much of his time tending to them. 

     Despite his duties, Cullen spent part of every day with the Inquisitor in Dorian’s tent. 

     “I’m resting,” she’d said, “just like the healers want. No sense in dragging me back to my own tent.” He suspected she didn’t want to be alone. Sera and Krem had practically moved in as well, and Bull joined them more often than not. All of them nursing their wounds together. 

     She didn’t talk about Solas and they didn’t ask. Despite Leliana’s insistent letters, Cullen didn’t, either. He knew once they returned to Skyhold she’d be subjected to those questions, at length. They could give her this time, and the unspoken agreement between her friends was that they _would_. 

     Her fever broke and the burns healed and the pinched lines of pain softened. Still, she said nothing. She was distressed, how could she not be? But he never saw evidence of tears. 

      

     ****

     They had been back at Skyhold for weeks when he found the Inquisitor leaning on the ramparts outside his office. There had been a flurry of activity, calling in favours and promises, all focused on finding Solas. No.  “Fen’Harel”, Cullen reminded himself, still having trouble connecting the soft spoken, simply dressed man at the Inquisitor’s side with the elven boogeyman. Yet, the other elves had abandoned them, in the weeks following their return. The Inquisitor, Sera and scarce handful of others were all that remained of the race in Skyhold. They’d slipped away in ones and twos, following the Dread Wolf. He moved to stand beside her and when she didn’t turn to look at him, he followed her gaze, marking out two dark figures against the snow. More deserters. 

     “I knew the kids would go, and probably the Dalish, once they knew the truth... but I thought I’d keep the mercs, should be too smart and too old to run after a dream. A world of magic where elves are kings,” she snorted, “and just where do they think they’ll be in the pecking order of this glorious new future? Gods? Kings?” she spat over the side. “Where is the freedom in that?”

     “Do you wish you were with them?” He surprised himself, asking the question that all of her advisors and friends hadn’t been able to bring themselves to, not even in Leliana’s long debriefing. It had been loud in every glance over the war table, in every mention of Solas’ name.

     “What? No. Of course not.” She said it harshly and jerked her head around to stare at him. “He broke my heart, took my hand, and now he’s trying to pull the world into the Fade. _I_ was pulled into the Fade and I can tell you, the world won’t enjoy it. I have to stop him, to convince him not to _do_ this. You change the world you’re _in_ , you don’t destroy it, hoping some other one will be better. Magic doesn’t change people. Not even elven gods.”

     “We _will_ , Inquisitor. We healed the sky, we’ll find him.” Cullen said, letting his shoulder brush against hers. She took the light gesture and strengthened it, putting her arm over his shoulders, his throat tightening at the sudden closeness. He’d forced himself not to be shy of touching her after she came back to them. He gave her his support till she had started to heal and then didn’t stop, offering her what comfort he could. 

     But this was her. Her body, healthy again, pressed beside his, moonlight spilling across her face and the cold wind biting at them both and he _wanted_ to feel the warmth of her so badly. Had needed her for so long. He turned under her arm, hand reaching to cup her face. 

     “I don’t know what you - that is, if you, ah...” he stammered as he moved closer, close enough that he could feel her breath against his lips. He wanted to kiss Solas’ name off of hers.

     “Cullen, do you need to ask?” she said, shaking her face out of his hand and stopping him with gentlest negative, her arm still across his shoulders. 

     “No... I suppose not.” He didn’t have the strength to pull away from her. He’d known what she would say, how she felt, but Maker, it hurt. That soft denial was every bit as hard as he feared it would be.

     “If all you wanted was a tumble… well, gods know, you’re pretty as the dawn and it’s been,” her breath rasped. “It’s been a long time. Too long. But I can’t give you what you want, Cullen. I don’t have it to give.”

     He remembered Dorian’s words. 

     “You can’t see past him.” 

     “No,” she said. “I can’t. I don’t even know if I _want_ to. He is so... he’s my… I…” she snapped her teeth together, not finding the words for what was between them. 

     “ _Vhenan_?” Cullen offered, no doubt saying the word badly. She closed her eyes against it and a long silence followed. He wondered if there was anything more she could say.

     “I don’t wish I was with him. I’ve put every inch of me into keeping this world crammed together and I will _never_ stop. But... if things were otherwise... I wish this didn’t have to be me.” She said, her next words coming hot and fast. “It does. I’m the only one who has half a chance of getting close to him, Cullen. I know it.” He felt her fist balling up against his arm. 

     She hadn’t spoken to any of them about this. He didn’t know if it was the abortive kiss or if she just couldn’t hold it in any longer, but it came in a torrent. “I still see him. It isn’t dreams, I know it. He pulls me into the Fade, tracks me, follows me, stares at me but won’t _say_ _anything_ no matter what I do, and then I wake up. Night. After. _Night_.” The last three words were emphasized with a rap of her fist. “The forest and the wolf. And I don’t know... is he doing it because he can’t help it? Or is it to keep me distracted? Was _all_ of it to make me act foolish?” Another hard breath. “I _was_ foolish and I should be furious and I am. I _am_! I need to stop him, but then I see him and I don’t know if I _can_ , Cullen, not if it means I have to... dammit. _Dammit_!” 

     Her face had gone red, screwed up with anger and confusion and sadness. There were still no tears. Cullen followed her example, in this, as in everything else. He pulled her into his arms. The woman who was so certain, who had been their compass for all these years, and was suddenly unable to commit to a course. He held her and wept the tears she was too hurt to cry. 

      


End file.
